Roots

I still cast lines every Sunday

And stop at the diner when we're done, and

I grew to like those corn grits

I guess I am my father's son

Just 'cause we stopped saving seats for you

Don't mean that you ain't right there in those rooms, 'cause

I love the changing of the seasons

Just like you do

And I still fill that fireplace with wood I cut up with you

I know I'll never be him